Target Practice
by Micisuewho
Summary: Inspired by the sneak peek for 3x14. Fitz confronts Jemma about her new training endeavors.
Jemma's eyes are glued to the whiteboard in the corner of the lab. Her attention is held by three black circles, each stacked inside of each other, shrinking to become a red dot in the center. She drew it as a reminder, though she hardly needed one. She would throw trash at it as she worked, at an attempt to mildly improve her aim.

May spoke to her about it earlier, the guns to be specific, but also about the generally hardened version of Jemma that sprung up out of guilt and self loathing and fear. While May doesn't entirely disapprove of her need to protect herself, the motivation visibly bothered her. But Jemma doesn't care. She won't be a damsel anymore. She won't be some victim, some tragedy. Putting people's lives in danger because she can't help herself. She won't let Fitz risk his life again for her safety. She's not going to let him die while she lives on. She can't afford to be fragile or weak. It's about time she did something to make herself useful to S.H.I.E.L.D instead of an obstacle.

It's almost as if someone nailed her feet to the floor. She either glances at the computer or crumples up another piece of paper and throws it at the target. Nothing else moves. Not as far as she's paying attention. The world is quiet except for her, the computer, and that damn target.

His voice snaps her back to reality.

"Jemma." Fitz places his hand on her shoulder. She whips her head around to look at him.

"Oh… Hi Fitz. I didn't expect you here…"

Fitz frowns, and furrows his brow. "Jemma I work here." He gently lifts his hand. "With you?" She flinches when he waves his hand in front of her face. "Remember?" Something is off about him. He's hunched over slightly more than usual. Something is on his mind.

"Right.. Yeah sorry I'm just.. A little distracted." She says, glancing at the pile of crumpled up papers on the floor.

Fitz shoves his hands in his pockets and walks around her. "What is this?" He says, kicking one of the paper balls at the foot of the stand that holds the whiteboard.

"It's…" Jemma scratches her head.

 _It's my solution. It's so that you don't have to keep sacrificing yourself. It's because enough people have died at my actions, or lack thereof._

"An experiment." This is the only answer she can come up with. She thought he knew already. That May must have told him. Or maybe she did, and he's simply being coy.

He picks up one of the paper balls and touches it to the center of the target, his other hand still resting in his pocket.

"What kind of experiment, Jemma?" He almost looks angry now, only his head fully facing her, and the rest still turned halfway toward the whiteboard. His eyes are wide, but his forehead is wrinkled.

She frowns. May must have spoken with him. And of course he would think negatively about it. About all of it.

Jemma instinctively crosses her arms. "Do you judge me that I want to protect myself?"

He's hardly got a spot on his face that isn't red now. He's hot with anger, burning with frustration.

"Come on, Jemma." He prods.

"Well what is it, then? Because I haven't got a word from you yet, and it's getting to be a bit absurd."

Fitz raises an eyebrow. "Oh so you _do_ care what I think, then?"

Jemma uncrosses her arms. "I'm sorry?"

"Because I _knew_ you'd been blaming yourself. I _knew_ you would take fault for everything and I remember watching you fall apart and begging you to blame me, blame chance, blame _anything_ but yourself, Jemma because it's not your-"

"It is! It is my fault!" Her arms flail out, and she takes a step toward him. Fitz leans slightly backwards. " _I_ got sucked into the planet. _I_ left him behind. _I_ let Andrew out of containment. It was _me,_ Fitz! And I won't let you make excuses for me!"

"Do you know how crazy that sounds?!" Fitz shouts. Jemma's lips straighten into a thin white line. " _You_ got sucked into a planet. As if you could help that!" He steps toward her. "Will _wanted_ to save you, that wasn't anything you could stop, and it's _selfish_ of you to take that away from him."

Jemma opens her mouth to respond, but loses track of her words.

"And Andrew would have been used as a weapon anyway." Jemma rolls her eyes and turns away from him.

"No, look at me!"

Jemma turns back around. They are inches apart. There's something different in the way he's looking at her, but she can't put her finger on it. His jaw is tight and his features are stiff, as if he's just glanced at medusa and suddenly his face has hardened to stone. But not his eyes. His eyes are soft, and gentle. Aching with concern, and begging her to understand him.

He lifts his hand to touch her wrist, but draws it back again before making contact. She's doesn't understand his hesitation, but the gesture sends a shiver down her spine.

"You can shoot like May and fight like Bobbi, or miss every target and get thrown to the ground. Guns or no guns, you will always be the bravest, strongest, smartest, kindest, most incredible person that I have ever known." Her eyes fall to his mouth. She can hear every breath. See every freckle. All the lines in his skin, the pink of his lips. She can see the tiny beads of sweat on his chin. She looks back up at his eyes and catches him scanning her face all the same. "And I'm sick and tired of you hating yourself." He takes a sharp breath in. "Because I just so happen to bloody love you." He says, letting the words escape his exhale. And at that, he steps away, holding her gaze for a moment longer before throwing the crumpled paper back on the floor and walking out of the lab.

Perhaps she knew. The feeling wasn't something she hadn't noticed. His actions alone spoke much louder than he ever dared to. He said himself he wanted to show her that she was more to him than just his best friend in the world, and he followed through more than she'd even anticipated. But the words, the actual words, she didn't prepare to hear. She hadn't readied herself for them. They came at her like lightening bolts, and she hardly had a second to process them before he'd gone and stormed out the door.

It's not fair, the way he just dropped the phrase in front of her like a coin. And she would protest, and she would yell and howl and chase after him, except suddenly she's found herself in the same spot as before - feet nailed in position - only this time left to ponder the pretty words he'd left behind in less pretty packaging, weighing down on her heart and pleading with her to conjure a response. The response… Well of course.. She bloody loved him too.


End file.
